I wave back at him, flapping my mechanical hand. The gesture looks a little silly when performed by an eight-hundred-pound robot. But it works.

CHAPTER.

15.

The next morning the Pioneers learn how to fly. We take the freight elevator up to the surface again and march to the runway on the other side of the basin. There's a hangar beside the runway, and through its open doors I see a helicopter, a UH-60 Black Hawk. Its weapon racks are loaded with a pair of Hellfire rockets, and a long antenna extends from the chopper's tail. Zooming in on the antenna with my camera, I notice it's connected to a neuromorphic control unit. A surge of excitement lights up my circuits. I picture myself soaring over the basin in the Black Hawk, maybe even launching one of its Hellfires.

But the helicopter isn't ready for action. Its rotor blades are folded and tied down, and there are no soldiers in the hangar to prepare the aircraft for flight. Instead, all the soldiers are on the runway, standing in a circle. As we get closer I see what's at the center of the circle: six miniature airplanes sitting on the tarmac.

They're sleek and black, made of shiny fiberglass. Each has a five-foot wingspan and a three-foot-long fuselage containing a battery compartment and an electric motor. Hanging from the belly of each plane is a video camera, and at the tail is a long antenna. The planes look similar to ordinary remote-control models, the kind that hobbyists pilot from the ground using radios, but each fuselage has an extra compartment that's wired to the motor and antenna. This compartment, I'm willing to bet, holds a neuromorphic control unit.

I feel a jolt of disappointment. We're going to transfer our minds to model airplanes? That's ridiculous. Those things aren't weapons. They're toys. Their top speed is maybe fifty miles per hour, and they're too light to carry any guns or missiles. What's the point of training in that thing? How in the world will it help us fight Sigma?

The soldiers step aside as we join the circle. The other Pioneers also seem puzzled by the miniature planes. Zia turns her turret to Marshall, who lifts his robotic arms in a shrug. I turn to Shannon and DeShawn, but neither says a word. (I don't bother Jenny, who's standing by herself as usual, silent and unapproachable.) Then General Hawke enters the circle and everyone salutes. The general halts beside the planes and points at the nearest one, which has the number 3 stamped on its fuselage. All the planes have numbers, just like us.

"This is an RQ-11 Raven," Hawke says. "Our troops have used these small drones for surveillance in Iraq, Afghanistan, and other combat zones. The Ravens usually fly at an altitude of five hundred feet and send video images of the battlefield to our men on the ground, who steer the drones by remote control." He crouches next to the plane and points at its fuselage. "We've modified these Ravens so they can carry a few extra pounds. We miniaturized the neuromorphic control unit and put a steel case around it to protect the circuits if the plane crashes. In today's exercise my men will launch the Ravens, and then the Pioneers will wirelessly transfer themselves to the control units while the planes are in flight. All the information needed to fly the Ravens is already loaded in the units. Once you're inside the planes, I'll send you further instructions by radio."

Hawke straightens up and steps away from the Ravens. "Before we start, are there any questions?"

I raise my hand. "Sir, could you explain the tactical advantages of attacking Sigma with this kind of aircraft?"

"Your question is premature, Armstrong. First you're gonna learn how to fly the Ravens. Then we'll discuss their advantages and disadvantages. Any other questions?" Hawke pauses, but no one else raises a hand. "All right, the commander goes first. Lieutenant Allawi?"

Zia steps forward. At the same time, one of Hawke's soldiers picks up Raven Number 3, carries it outside the circle, and starts its motor, which whines and buzzes as it turns the plane's propeller. I assume he's going to set the plane on the runway for the takeoff, but instead the soldier flings it into the air. The Raven climbs at a steep angle, and within seconds it's hundreds of feet above the ground. It may be just a miniature plane, but the takeoff is pretty cool.

"Okay, Allawi, you can transfer now," Hawke says.

"Yes, sir!" Zia says, saluting him again. Then she turns on her data transmitter.

The general tilts his head back to gaze at the Raven, which looks like a tiny black cross against the sky. After half a minute he glances at Zia's Pioneer, which powers down after it finishes transmitting its data. Hawke grabs a radio from his belt, holds it up to his mouth, and shouts, "Allawi, are you up there?"

There's no answer at first. Hawke waits about ten seconds, then shouts into the radio again. "Please respond, Allawi. Are you all right?"

After five more seconds, her reply comes back. "Affirmative, sir. I'm piloting the Raven. Everything is functioning normally."

The general seems relieved. He purses his lips and lets out a long breath. Then he turns to me. "You're next, Armstrong."

"Uh, sir? Could I launch the plane myself?"

Hawke cocks his head. "Have you already downloaded the instructions for the RQ-11?"

"No, sir, but I observed the soldier do it, and I can imitate him exactly. And it would be useful to practice launching the Ravens. Just in case we have to do it in the field."

He thinks it over for a moment. "All right. Just don't slam it into the ground. Believe it or not, each of those little planes costs fifty thousand dollars."

I'm amazed he's actually letting me do it. I stride toward the Ravens, pick up Number 1, and turn on its motor. The plane vibrates in my steel hand as I draw my arm back, readying for the throw. Then I hurl the Raven at a sixty-degree angle and it shoots right up into the sky. I watch it climb for a few seconds, then turn to the other Pioneers and do a little bow, tilting my torso forward.

Marshall and Jenny just stand there, but Shannon and DeShawn applaud, their fingers clinking.

"Nice pass, Armstrong," Shannon says. "But where's your receiver?"

"I'm my own receiver. It's every quarterback's dream." I glance at Hawke, who gives me a nod, and then I turn on my data transmitter.

I feel the weird stretching sensation again. It's even more disorienting than when I transferred myself to the Humvee, because now I'm transmitting my data over a much greater distance. The radio waves from my antenna spread in all directions, sweeping across the floor of the basin and rising hundreds of feet into the air. In a millionth of a second they reach the antenna at the tail of my Raven, but the signal is weak. Because the waves have spread across such a huge area, it takes longer for all my data packets to reassemble in the Raven's control unit. For nearly a minute I'm sprawled across the Colorado sky, my mind arcing dizzily above the Rocky Mountains.

And then I'm inside the Raven. I connect to the plane's video camera and see the mountainous landscape below. The Raven also has an acoustic sensor, and when I link to it, I hear the buzz of the motor and the whistling of the wind. Last, I connect to the plane's accelerometers, which monitor the four forces acting on me: gravity, lift, thrust, and drag. I'm perfectly balanced between these forces, and the feeling is incredible, like riding the world's best roller coaster. I retrieve the instructions for the RQ-11 and switch the plane from remote-control flight to autonomous operation. Now I'm flying!

There are no flaps on the Raven's wings, so I have to rely on the rudder and the elevator at the plane's tail. First I test the rudder, turning the plane to the left and right. Then I angle the elevator upward, which lowers the tail and lifts the plane's nose. An instant later I rev up the motor, and the Raven goes into a steep, thrilling climb. A strong wind from the west buffets and jostles me, but I tweak the controls and keep aiming for the clouds. I level out at two thousand feet above the ground, then point the video camera downward so I can get a good view of the countryside. The basin is directly below, a muddy brown bowl with a snow-white rim. All around it are the endless peaks of the Rockies.

Then I get an incoming radio signal, encrypted for security reasons. My circuits decode the message, which is a voice communication from General Hawke.

"You okay, Armstrong?"

Adjusting the lens of the plane's camera, I zoom in on the general and the Pioneers. They look so tiny down there.

"Big affirmative, sir," I reply, transmitting my synthesized voice over the radio channel. "This is the best day of my life."

"Take it easy with the aerobatics. If you lose control at that altitude, you'll hit the ground pretty hard."

I focus the camera on the ridges surrounding the basin. Falling on the snow-covered ground probably wouldn't be so bad, but there are also sections of exposed rock on the slopes. Then another worry occurs to me. "Sir, I think I've gone too high. I can see for miles around, and that means anyone down there can see me too."

I expect Hawke to get angry, but his voice stays calm. "It's a risk, but a small one. From this far away, you look like a bird. And we've restricted public access to the surrounding area."

I start to descend anyway. Better safe than sorry. Lowering the elevator, I dip the plane's nose and cut back on the motor. I see Zia's Raven five hundred feet below me, flying in a wide circle. A quarter-mile to the west I spot a third plane climbing into the sky. From far away, they really do look like birds.

That's when I get my first inkling of Hawke's plan for attacking Sigma. I reopen the radio channel to the general. "Sir? What would the Ravens look like on a radar screen? They'd look more like birds than planes, wouldn't they?"

There's a pause of several seconds. When Hawke finally comes back on the radio, he sounds amused. "That's another premature question, Armstrong."

"But am I right, sir? Have I identified one of the Raven's tactical advantages?"

"We'll talk about it later. Now stop bothering me. I have to get three more Pioneers into the air."

I continue descending. Turning the rudder to the right, I go into a slow, clockwise corkscrew. Over the next fifteen minutes the other Pioneers zoom up from the runway, one by one. Pretty soon we're all circling the airspace over the basin. It's an amazing sight.

I don't want it to end, but the charge in my Raven's battery will only last for another fifteen minutes. I descend below eight hundred feet, which is the height of the ridges around the basin, and now I can no longer see the mountains beyond. Then I get another radio message from General Hawke. He's addressing all the Pioneers at once.

"So far, so good," he says. "Now here comes the hard part. I want all of you to turn off your motors."

After a few seconds of silence, Shannon's synthesized voice comes over the radio. "Could you repeat that, sir? I'm not sure I heard you correctly."

"You heard me right, Gibbs. Shut down your motors."

"But, sir?" This is DeShawn's voice. "How will we-"

"You're gonna glide the rest of the way down. All the necessary instructions are in your control units."

He's right. According to the instructions, the Raven's design-long wings, sleek fuselage-makes it ideal for gliding. We can land the planes without power if we spiral down to the basin, using the rudder for steering and the elevator to control the descent. "Should we land on the runway, sir?" I ask.

"Negative. I want you to transfer back to your Pioneers while you're still gliding. First you need to descend to about three hundred feet to get within radio range. Then you have to keep the Ravens circling in the air until you complete the data transfer. After that, the planes will revert back to remote-control operation and my men will steer them to the landing zone."

"Excuse me, General?" This is Marshall's voice, with its computer-generated British accent. "May I ask why we're practicing this particular maneuver?"

"No, you may not. Are your circuits malfunctioning, Baxley? Didn't you hear what I told Armstrong? No premature questions."

"My apologies, sir. I didn't-"

"All right, enough chatter. Cut your motors right now. I'll give a nice, shiny medal to whoever makes it down first."

For a moment I feel sorry for Marshall, but not because Hawke chewed him out. I feel sorry for him because he doesn't see what's obvious. The reason for today's training exercise becomes absolutely clear as soon as I turn off my motor. The electric buzz ceases and the propeller stops spinning and the only sound my acoustic sensor picks up is the whistling of the wind. The Raven is flying silently now. If it were nighttime, the plane would be invisible and untrackable. It could glide right into a Russian missile base and no one would be the wiser.

Without the thrust from the propeller the Raven lurches earthward, but after a couple of seconds it settles into a glide path. I'm five hundred feet above the ground, and at this rate of descent I'll be within radio range of my Pioneer in half a minute. But then I see another Raven streak past me. It's Number 3, Zia's plane, and it's diving fast. She clearly wants to be the first Pioneer on the ground. She's so hungry for General Hawke's approval that she'll risk smashing herself to pieces. Luckily, she pulls out of the dive at the last second and starts gliding in a wide corkscrew above her Pioneer.

But she made a mistake. Her corkscrew is too wide, almost five hundred feet across. My circuits do the math: although she's only two hundred feet above the ground, she's more than three hundred feet from her Pioneer. I can get closer than that. I know I can.

I tilt my Raven downward and go into a dive. This is insane, but I can't stop myself. My Raven's nose points directly at my Pioneer and I'm accelerating like crazy. My camera shows Hawke's soldiers looking up at me and scattering across the runway. The general himself doesn't budge, but he frowns in disapproval. If I survive this stunt, he'll probably demote me.

When I'm just a hundred feet from the ground I pull out of the dive and turn sharply right, trying to make my corkscrew as tight as possible. The Raven wobbles and almost flips over, but I manage to keep the plane flying. At the same time, I turn on my data transmitter. I'm a lot closer to my Pioneer than Zia is to hers, and that means I can transfer my data a lot faster.

Although she started her transfer several seconds before I did, I finish first. Back in my Pioneer, I take a clanging step toward the general. My Raven still circles overhead, now operated by Hawke's soldiers. "Sir, I believe you said something about a medal?"

Hawke is still frowning. "That was stupid."

"Sorry, sir. Guess I have a risk-taking personality."

"It's stupid to take risks if you don't have a good reason. And I don't give out medals for stupidity."

While he glares at me, I hear clanking to my left. Zia's Pioneer comes to life and steps forward. She salutes the general but doesn't say anything. She knows I beat her this time, but she won't acknowledge it.

Hawke looks at his watch. "All right, let's wrap things up. One of Sigma's satellites is going to pass overhead soon." He points at Zia as he marches off. "Allawi, make sure everyone gets inside the base by twelve hundred hours."

One by one, the other Pioneers leave their Ravens and come back to earth. Jenny stays in the air for a few extra minutes, but then she comes down too and we all head for the freight elevator. Zia marches beside me as we cross the basin, and for a second I consider saying something to needle her. But she speaks first. "You're a show-off, Armstrong."

"And you're a sore loser."

"You think this is a game? You think we're playing around here?" She stops walking and points at me with her right arm, the one that holds her acetylene torch. "That's the problem with you. You think everything's a joke."

This is unfair. Maybe I'm not as serious as Zia, but I'm not the jokester of Pioneer Base. Marshall's the comedian, and he's Zia's best friend. I step toward her, ready to have it out. "You know, Zia, there's something I don't understand. You've been nasty to me since the first moment I saw you. What do you have against me? I never did anything to you."

She turns her turret, first clockwise, then counter. "No, you're wrong about that. You're careless. And it's hurting all of us."

"What are you talking about? I'm not hurting anyone."

"Oh yeah? What about the satellites?" She points a steel finger at the sky. "Why do you think so many of them are looking for us? It's because you screwed up and told your high-school buddy about this place."

What? How does Zia know about that? My conversation with Hawke about the "out west" comment was supposed to be confidential. "How did you-"

"I know a lot of things. So you better watch your step."

Then she strides away, leaving me more confused than ever.

We have some free time in the afternoon, so I go looking for Hawke. I find him in one of Pioneer Base's corridors, running off to another meeting, and I ask if he's heard any news about Ryan. He says no, but he assures me that the police and the FBI are on the case. For a moment I consider asking him if he mentioned this subject to Zia, but I don't. I think I know how she got the information. Marshall must've eavesdropped on my conversation with Hawke and passed the tidbit along.

Afterward, I stop by my bedroom to recharge. While juicing up I practice the transfer process, wirelessly sending my data to Pioneer 1A-my evil twin, standing motionless in the corner-and then back to Pioneer 1. But I still hate doing this. It still makes me nauseous, so I cut the practice session short as soon as I finish recharging. Then I leave my twin behind and head for Dad's laboratory. I take an envelope with me, gripping it gently between my steel fingers.

It's my letter to Mom. I finally worked up the courage to write it. It's a short letter, just eight sentences. I scribbled it in pencil because that seemed more personal than printing it out. Now I'm going to ask Dad to send it to the secret location where the Army's hiding her.

When I get to the lab, though, I see a soldier guarding the door. He says Dad's talking with General Hawke. Then he sees the envelope in my hand and offers to give it to Dad when the meeting's over. But I say no thanks. I don't want the soldier to touch it.

As I head back to my room I realize I've seen Dad only four times in the past week, and each time we spent only a few minutes together. I know he's very busy now-he's working on the plans for the Tatishchevo mission-but it still seems unfair. Before I became a Pioneer we spent hours together every day, chatting about computers or math or football while he changed my clothes and prepared my meals and took me to the bathroom and put me to bed. Now, of course, I don't need as much assistance. I'm a low-maintenance robot instead of a high-maintenance human. But I miss our talks.

When I return to my room and open the door, I get a big surprise. Another Pioneer stands next to my evil twin. It's Pioneer 2, Jenny Harris.

Dumbfounded, I step inside and let the door close behind me. Jenny has avoided everyone for the past six days, so I don't understand what she's doing here. Did she wander into my room by mistake? No, that can't be right. She would've known she was in the wrong place as soon as she saw the Super Bowl posters on the walls.

I put my letter to Mom on the bookshelf next to my comics. Then I take a cautious step forward. "Uh, Jenny? Are you all right?"

She turns her turret, aiming her camera at me. "Yes, I'm fine."

I wait for her to say something else, but she just stands there, as motionless as my evil twin.

"So, uh, what's up?" I ask. "Do you want to talk or something?"

Several seconds go by. I'm about to repeat the question when she extends her right arm and points at one of my Super Bowl posters. "I recognize that," she says. "It was in your memories."

She's pointing at my Super Bowl XLVI poster, the one with the drawing of Eli Manning and the photograph of me and Ryan. Jenny must've seen it when I was inside her Pioneer. It makes sense that she'd remember this particular image, because it's one of my most powerful memories, so strong that it shapes a big portion of my electronics. I guess it was powerful enough to leave an impression on Jenny's circuits too.

I'm agitated now. What else does Jenny know about me? How many other images from my past were copied onto her circuits?

After a moment she points at another Super Bowl poster, the last one. "I recognize those drawings too." She gestures at the three portraits I drew, lined up left to right on the poster. "That's Brittany, right?"

This is too much. It's too personal. I need to stop this right now. "Look, Jenny, I'm confused. For a whole week you wouldn't talk to me. You wouldn't talk to anyone. And now you come in here and-"

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Well, what's going on?" My synthesized voice is loud and angry.